


very short fills

by orphan_account



Series: unrelated tumblr shorts [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, prompt list stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I'm too uncommitted to do one of those 30-day things so I took a list of 100 prompts to work on at random





	1. Breathe Again

Jim groans and arches his back, which does absolutely nothing to spur Mycroft’s  _stupidly slow_  and languid ministrations.

“If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to give me an aneurysm,” Jim complains, too breathy for there to be any real heat in it.

“Not how arteries work,” Mycroft replies patiently. He’s  _barely_  moving. Jim’s thighs tense with his need to  _wrap_  his legs around Mycroft and pull him closer, and the slightly action only makes Mycroft shove them a bit farther apart. Jim lets his head thud backwards; his restrained arms are just as useless here.

“Wouldn’t hurt for you to learn a bit of patience,” Mycroft murmurs, contemplative. Jim wants to shriek with indignation and only manages a sharp inhale. 

“I  _am patient_ ,” he grits out, eyes trained on the headboard, willing himself not to whine. “I waited  _all day_ , you  _made me wait_  all day. And for what? So you could fuck me at the  _glacier’s pace_  that you are? If you don’t do something soon,  _Mycroft_ , I’ll have spent the rest  of my  _patience_.”

He grumbles, mostly to himself but definitely so Mycroft can hear, “I’ll have to take it out on something, maybe carve out those pretty eyeballs from your dumb assistant.”

That earns him a sharp  _thwap_.

“No bringing work into this,” Mycroft replies drolly, “you remember the rules.”

“No bringing work! You stood me up this morning because of the  _Prime Minister_  and then pushed back our lunch date because of the Bel-  _oh-”_

Mycroft snaps his hips forward and now Jim has to bite his lip not to whine.

“Maybe,” Mycroft says, between sharp thrusts, still much too leisurely, punctuated by Jim’s shuddering gasps, “I just like to be reminded every once in a while” - his voice is sweetly mocking, and he still sounds much too in control for Jim’s liking, but there’s nothing he can do for it; he’s helpless. “How much you want me.”

“Oh-” the soft little sound is all he is able to articulate - “ _oh!”_ Epiphany strikes.

“You want me to beg, do you?” Jim whispers. From his position he can scarcely get a full breath, and nothing he says sounds like much of a threat. 

“Hm,” Mycroft pretends to think it over. “Could be a start.”

“Please,” Jim says, and he practically means it. “ _Please- oh - “_

The change in angle catches him by surprise. 

“Mycroft–”

And soon he’s babbling in earnest.


	2. "Alright, I love you"

“I mean. I have never been anyone but myself with you. I feel like that should count for something,” Jim explains haltingly.

It doesn’t remove the baffled expression from Mycroft’s face nor ease the stiff set of his recoiled shoulders. Jim worries at his lip.

“And I lie to everyone,” he continues. “About anything. But I’ve never lied to you - at least, not about anything important.”

“You lied about those elections,” Mycroft supplies immediately, just because he always needs to be  _right_ or whatever, all the while still shrinking away from Jim. Mycroft blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m saying what we have is special!” Jim practically shouts, exasperated. He can’t deal with this suspense! And the marble tiling is hell on his knee.

Mycroft just gives him a funny look. Then his eyes drop down to the box in Jim’s hand.

He reaches for it, then pulls his hand back.

“Can I…?”

Jim perks up.

“Does that mean ‘yes’?”

“Nn-” Mycroft stops, choosing his words carefully. “I just want to see.”

Jim sighs, shoulders falling.

“Can I get up then?” he asks.

“I never said you had to - ” Mycroft gestures to Jim’s position vaguely.

Jim, down on one knee, stands and straightens his suit, all the while delivering a very flat look and never once breaking eye contact with Mycroft. He crosses his arms and cocks his head and dons a sort of annoyed-waiting-teenager posture as he internally tears his hair out and wears his nails down with biting as Mycroft surveys the piece of jewelry.

It’s an engagement ring.

It’s not even stolen.

Custom made, and just on the right side of ostentatious to catch Mycroft’s attention and have him interested in the setting, without being too flashy for him to consider wearing.

And  _oh_ , is he  _considering_.

Jim would prefer he  _stop_ considering, and just make up his damn mind. (He can’t take the suspense any longer.)

“Well?” he asks. It comes out weirdly high. Jim coughs to cover it up.

“I wasn’t aware we were…” Mycroft gestures vaguely again.

_What?_

“Can you use your words?” Jim asks impatiently. He is internally panicking now. Mycroft gives him another weird look, before setting the ring into the box, and handing the box back.

Jim’s heart plummets.

“So that’s a no?” he asks, voice harder than he’d like.

“Nn-” Mycroft bites his tongue. He squints, chooses his words carefully.

“What brought this on?”

It’s Jim’s turn to give Mycroft a very baffled look.

“Okay, so. When two people love each other, sometimes - ”

“Do we?” Mycroft interrupts.

“What?”

He stares pointedly.

“Yes,” Jim answers, still baffled and a bit defensive. “Of course. I do. I know you do.”

The following pause is so awkward it could induce crickets to chirp out of season, just to fill the silence.

“Don’t you?” Jim asks.

Mycroft has the audacity to look offended. “Of course I love you,” he admonishes. “Don’t be silly.”

Jim looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Then what-”

“Do you?” Mycroft asks. It’s coy. But Jim isn’t sure what he’s pushing for.

“What? Yes!”

“You haven’t said,” Mycroft demurs.

“Yes, I  _have_ ,” Jim insists.

“You haven’t.”

“Alright!” Jim throws his arms up. Is that what this is about? “I love you.”

Mycroft smiles, just a tad smug, and pats him on the arm.

“Alright,” he says, nodding at the tile. “You can do it again now.”


	3. Seeking Solace

Jim’s head snaps back and he turns so he can better peer into Mycroft’s eyes, seeking out a tell-tale sign of a joke or some snipe he’s missed.

“You…want me to stay,” Jim repeats slowly, with such skepticism and uncertainty Mycroft has to clamp down on the urge to roll his eyes. It’s just like the little brat to turn irreverent at the drop of a hat. Instead, he reaches out to rub along Jim’s arms, tenderly mapping the indentations left by the rope bindings as he massages them, and Jim leans back into Mycroft’s chest as if by reflex. He likes this. They both like this. But discussion of after what happens after is never brought up.

Mycroft presses a kiss to the top of Jim’s left shoulder.

“Just the night, if you’d like,” he says, letting himself be momentarily pleased that the man stays relaxed at the offer this time, there isn’t so much as the slightest bit of tension left in him.

“Til morning?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies. Clarification is important, he supposes.

Jim is quiet for a moment, and Mycroft knows this time it’s his imagination that he man to settle more deeply as he deliberates.

“There are an awful lot of hours left ‘til morning, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s the one who shivers this time. Jim rarely uses his name, whereas he insists Mycroft use his. It’s usually Mr. Holmes, with an undercurrent of laughter to it. Or sir.

“I’m aware,” Mycroft says patiently.

Jim tips his head up.

“You do like me,” he says, but the playful words are at odds with his eerie, blank eyes. It was those eyes that disturbed Mycroft the most. For all the man’s grandstanding and flair, his eyes were always made darker than they really were by force of his dead, soulless stare. He supposes Jim finds it unsettling too - to come to Mycroft to be broken down and put together again, to create moments when he can’t help but feel, and let himself be filled, awash with those emotions he can’t quite create on his own, catch quite pin down and keep for himself.

Mycroft doesn’t answer. He can’t find the words.


	4. Light (molly x eurus)

“You’re popular.”

Molly squeaks as she flips on the light, and the flourescent bulbs - two missing - flood her lab with uneven light.

There’s a girl with dark hair, tied in two with red ribbons, sitting at her computer, clicking and scrolling away with an oddly familiar sort of bored expression on her face.

“Can I help you?” Molly asks. She should be calling for security, not minding manners. But here we are.

“I sure hope so!” the girl says.

“May 25th,” she continues, loud and flat, “A text from our dearly beloved dead detective, asking to use your flat.”

Molly freezes.

“May 31st, a cryptic poem that looks to be from some poetry AI experiment of a newsletter appears in your inbox, despite the fact that you’ve not signed up for it. The references are clear -  you’re still in touch with Moriarty.”

Molly knows now security will not help.

“June 2nd, our dear detective thanks you for all the help you’ve given, out of the blue,” she reads, still bored, before her tone changes abruptly.

“Perhaps he misses you?” the girl asks sweetly now. “They don’t know about each other, do they? And which one of them is it that you miss most, Molly dear?”

Molly stammers, but righteous indignation wins out over her self-preservation instincts, which, honestly, were never all that high.

“Neither of them,” she returns emphatically. “I’m not seeing either of them. And, and - I don’t have feelings for them. Anymore.”

It’s not a very convincing speech, Molly knows, but it’s true and it _feels true_  saying it now, and that’s what really matters.

The girl’s eyes turn curious. Her face is still, but it seems like her eyes are zeroing in on Molly’s every move. Every agitated breath, every nervous flitting of the eyes. Her fingernails digging into her palms.

“Interesting,” the girl breathes. It sounds like a hypothesis, not a revelation. 

“What?” Molly asks. After all she’s revealed, she deserves to know.

“Lots,” the girl says. “It’ll take ages. Let’s get a coffee?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need a cute ship name for these two


	5. Love (molly x eurus)

  
Molly thinks she can still see stars in the corners of her eyes, vestiges of a primitive galaxy melting, giving way to reality as she breathes deep.

Apparently, orgasms make her poetic.

“It’s not love, you know.”

“Hm?”

Eurus’s head is pillowed on her stomach, and Molly runs her fingers through the dark hair.

“It’s just chemicals and closeness juxtaposed against the bad times alone that make you confuse floating and falling and think this is something special.”

Molly snorts a laugh, not even caring how indelicate it sounds.

“Oh, dear,” she says “you may be a genius, but I think out of the two of us, I’m the expert in love here.”


	6. "When I said you're mine, I meant it"

Jim leans over the railing on the second floor of the gallery and basks in the knowledge that in two day’s time the space below will be bathed in chaos.

“Proud of your work, are you?”

Jim turns around.

“Sorry?” he asks, sounding every bit the art student he looked, with his rolled-up sleeves and giant sketchbook in hand.

A man who had to be only a handful of years older than Jim, but dressed with all the propriety of someone at least twice his age, takes a position by Jim’s side, surveying the gallery below as well.

“It’s a classic mistake to return to the scene of a crime,” he says. Jim eyes him; he’s tall, quite a bit taller than Jim and holding himself in a way that makes full use of his height. His red hair is darkened by the product he uses to style it back, and he has a smattering of freckles that lie dormant now but will be dark to conceal come summer.

“Ah, well, I suppose in this case it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps return isn’t the right term.” He turns to Jim now, studying his face in kind.

Jim can’t help but give him a crooked half-smile. “Are you asking me if I come here often?” he teases.

“No,” the man says easily, turning away again. “I’m not here to arrest you either; and if we’re being perfectly honest I came on a hunch. I wasn’t positive you’d be here, and had to go on the assumption that my profile of you was correct. That you like the attention.”

That throws Jim, but for a moment.

“We’re arresting the Saudi prince who paid for your…services, in any case. You won’t see the heist take place, nor the chaos mid-party on Friday.”

Jim’s concentration falters, and the tip of his pencil breaks. Both men look down at his unfinished sketch of the massive Bacchian sculpture at the center of the ground floor.  

“And what is it you think I have to do with this…” Jim trails off, a loss for words, give the man a funny look and a smile, like he has no idea what he’s saying and is playing along simply because he is polite. “This heist, was it? Sorry, and, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he says. “I think that while you may not be physically involved in what might have become an art theft and that you are neither the one procuring the item nor involved in its offloading, you are somehow the one we have to thank that all this was made possible, and with such pizazz.”

“Pizazz!” Jim laughs at that.

“Something of a consultant, I suppose. A consulting criminal?”

“Alright. I like you,” Jim said. “I’ve decided. I’m keeping you.”

“Sorry?”

Jim packs his things and drops the accent.

“See you around, Mycroft Holmes.”

.

Leaving 221B is in a less than good mood is quite standard Mycroft, but all the more so when before he is able to set foot in his car, he’s hit in the back of the head and knees, chloroformed, and everything goes black.

When he comes to, he has the distinct impression he has been fit into the trunk of a car. It’s dark, stuffy, and all in all a horrid experience, but he’s not been bound in any way. The car is moving, quite quickly, and Mycroft can only assume they are not on a crowded road. Needing more information and, soon, air - he kicks out one of the back lights, so that he can see where they are and perhaps open the back and jump out of the car.

As his foot connects with the light - the car abruptly stops.

Mycroft holds still. Should he feign unconsciousness?

The hatch opens, and then someone is shining a flashlight into his face.

“No fair!” He’d recognize that Irish lilt anywhere. Mycroft shields his eyes from the direct light and squints up at Jim.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“No colluding with Sherlock,” Jim says, sounding playfully warning. “It’s not fair. Mm, you were giving him a case, weren’t you - a case that  _I’ve_ been working on, from the other side, of course -  a case you’re too lazy to deal with yourself. That’s no good, Mr. Holmes. I’m playing a game with Sherlock myself too, and you can’t go in interfering like this, giving him work that’ll lead him to clues about me.”

“Sherlock’s my rival and it won’t do for him to have such a wonderful trump card such as you when I haven’t. Positively criminal, really.”

“So. I’m fixing things,” Jim finishes, giving Mycroft a serene smile. “I’ll take you out of the equation, set you up somewhere nice, where you can wait for me.”

Mycroft starts to wonder what Moriarty’s endgame is, and he reaches out to caress Mycroft’s face.

“When I said you’re  _mine_ , I meant it.”


End file.
